Ready For Love
by ronny-of-yore
Summary: After doing something despicable, Dean goes off to brood. However, Sam's not about to just leave him alone. He's figured a few things out for himself about their current 'situation' and he thinks it's about time Dean faced up to the truth. Wincest


Ready For Love

On a country road, underneath the stars, Dean Winchester has no idea where the hell he is, but he's ok with that. That is, until he starts to hear a peculiar sound. At what seems like crunching gravel coming his way, Dean blurrily looks up from his place sitting on the hood of the Impala. It's too dark to see, not to mention the fact that he'd already been drunk when he'd started emptying the cooler, by his feet, one amber bottle at a time.

With the sound getting closer, Dean's about to pull his gun from the back of his pants when the moon finally decides to come out from its hiding place; still half hidden behind a bit of cloud, it highlights a tall figure walking down the dirt and rock-strewn path toward him. The shadows from the overgrown rows of corn, on either side of the road, continue to obscure the person's features, but Dean will always recognize his brother.

_No friggin way…_

Needless to say, even inebriated as he is, Dean's completely shell-shocked, because he's sitting on their only means of transportation; the crazy bastard must have walked all the way out here on foot. "What're you—? …Sam, what the hell are you doing out here?" he hoarsely questions. After all, he'd left their motel room some hours ago for a reason — a damn good one.

For his part, Sam looks calm and collected with his hands in his pockets and an air of nonchalance surrounding him as he continues to wander his way up to his brother perched on the front of the parked car. "Oh, I don't know," Sam says with a single shrugged shoulder, "thought I'd go out for a stroll. Get a breath of fresh air. Kind of looked like that type of night, you know?"

Dean's face closes in on itself. Yeah, like he's going to buy that. Wearily watching the guy ambling up to the empty space to his left, Dean asks, "At this time of night? Way the hell out here?" Finally looking around and actually noticing the rural scenery that he's been pretty much phasing out, he brusquely questions, "Where the hell is _here_ anyway?"

Forcing Dean to slide over, Sam scoots back on the hood and takes up a seat next to him, like a bit of star gazing sounds like a great idea. "A few miles out from town. Probably in somebody's backyard." However, Dean feels irrationally triumphant when his brother finally turns to him with a break in his calm. "Hey, how much did you drink before you rode out here anyway?"

Sam asks because Dean's usual flask is still sitting back at their room and he can smell the whiskey radiating from his brother. Plus, he knows their cooler only ever holds beer. Or should he say it used to? By the many smashed, empty bottles he'd come up on, he's pretty sure it's barren right now. (He stamps down the sudden urge to get pissy over Dean's littering.)

Uncomfortable with how close Sam is, Dean looks away, but he doesn't move or make to get up. "Enough," he bitterly replies — Ok, so he'd gone to a bar earlier too. Sue him. — before posing a question of his own. "So, how—? …How'd you find me?"

"Google maps," Sam tells him. Dean makes a blank face at that, because, not being a tech geek like his huge, nerdy brother, Sam could be speaking Swahili for all he knows.

Grateful that he'd secretly downloaded the application on his brother's cell, after the last time one of them went missing — Dean with a group of lesser demons two states back — Sam grins. "Found you with my phone. Good thing you're little dot hasn't moved in the past three hours either, 'cause, you know, took almost an hour and a half just to get out here."

Purposely ignoring that last bit, Dean questions, "It can do that?" The fact is all Dean ever does with his cell is make calls or play Angry Birds when he's without a TV and bored out of his mind.

"Yep," Sam replies with a pop of his lips as he looks out over the sea of swaying fields around them.

"Huh."

After that, they lapse into uncomfortable silence for a while with Dean trying to act like the tension isn't killing him and Sam like he doesn't feel the awkwardness at all. The guy even starts to quietly hum and that right there really pisses Dean off. It enrages him enough to finally open his mouth again. (Of course, Sam had only done it so he would.)

"Why're you still here? Thought you'd have left by now."

Sam's cool veneer finally shatters. A look of wounded disbelief slips over his face as he rounds on Dean. "Is that—? Is that what you were doing? Giving me enough time to just pack up and leave? To just bail out on you when your back was turned?" —An opened mouth shake of a head— "Dean, did you…? Did you really think I'd do something that messed up? Especially over something so small?"

"Sma—?" That's it. Dean can't take it anymore. The pink elephant sitting between them is so getting poked in the eye. "I wouldn't exactly call kissing my own friggin brother while he was sleeping fucking small, Sam!"

"Dean, look—"

"No! You look! What I did isn't just huge; it's pretty damn close to friggin stalkerish! And, hello, still don't know why I did it either! Seriously, Sam, whatever you're thinking about saying, you can just friggin stuff it, 'cause ain't nothing gonna make me feel any better about the fucked up shit I did!" At that, Dean slides to the edge of the Impala, as far away from his brother as he can get without actually getting off the hood. After a calming breath, he bitingly adds, "Jesus, I'm surprised you didn't go all screaming for the hills like some crying little girl."

Dean can still see the fucked up scene playing out in his mind. Not one to get much sleep at night due to flashbacks of hell, an exhausted Sam had taken an early bedtime that night due to Dean's pushy influence. (_Go your ass to sleep, bitch. I'll wake you when you start thrashing.)_And while the guy had fitfully slept, some of his too-long hair had fallen over his face as he'd turned on his back. Having looked up from his place, on his own bed — he'd been secretly watching reruns of Oprah — Dean hadn't been able to quell the urge to get up and brush the errant strands aside.

And as he had, he'd just sat there, on the edge of Sam's mattress, watching his brother's tensed features smoothing out under his own gentle touch. The guy had looked so much younger then — almost peaceful — and having been filled with such a strong bout of affection because of it, Dean had leaned down, pressed his forehead to Sam's, like he used to when they were kids.

But unlike when they were mere brats, he had suddenly felt a strong surge of something else and that right-wrong feeling had been what had made him try to secretly taste his brother's lips. In truth, the kiss had been chaste, but it had been enough to make Sam's eyes fly open from the touch. But it hadn't been Sam's push to the chest that had shoved Dean away. On the contrary, Dean had been the first to pull back and that right there had been when he'd decided to pick his keys up and just … go. It'd been while he'd later found himself parked in front of Oak's Bar that he'd decided to give Sam enough time to pack up and leave.

Awake and stubbornly staying by his brother's side, now, Sam thankfully doesn't follow his brother's angry slide, but he doesn't let the subject drop either. "Dean, it's not a big deal. I mean, it's not even the first time it's happened. And, hello, before tonight, we were still good."

That catches Dean's attention alright, like a whip's lash to the back. "What?"

"I said we're still good," Sam replies, putting emphasis on every word.

"Before that!" he yells, because, yeah, he hadn't been talking about that part at all!

"It's not the first time it's happened?" Sam echoes, like his brother's just asking him to repeat which diner he wants to stop in and eat at.

Needless to say, Dean is suddenly completely freaked out and highly confused. "Wait. What? What the hell are you talking about? And why the fuck don't I remember?"

Even under the seriousness of the situation, Sam can barely maintain the urge to roll his eyes. "I'd say denial made you block it out or, you know, you were pretty much out of your head each and every time. Well, except for that first one. But that first one doesn't really count, because you were just trying to help me out. You do remember that don't you?"

"What the—?" Unfortunately, pretty buzzed, Dean's left desperately trying to draw up pictures, but getting nothing but blank pages in return. "Exactly how many times are you saying I—? …Why the fuck didn't you tell me? And what the fuck are you talking about denial?"

Sam purposely completely ignores that last part as he rationally explains, "It was only a couple times, Dean, and none of it really mattered. Besides, I didn't want to bring it up because it's not exactly something you'd want to talk about afterward." With a condemning look, meaning his brother's current retarded behavior, he remarks, "Know what I'm saying?"

Dean hangs his head, because, yeah, guy might have a point. However, he still doesn't like any of this shit. "Christ," he grumbles with his head in his hands.

Sam finally slides over and pats his brother's shoulder consolingly ... before Dean completely shakes him off. "Look, whatever you're thinking, I'm not gonna just up and leave because you kissed me. We're not just partners, Dean. We're brothers and, I don't know about you, but I wouldn't want anyone else watching my back. Besides, I mean, seriously, if I played by those rules, I would've left your sorry ass way back when I was twelve."

Highly shocked and with a sudden curdled stomach, Dean immediately looks up completely stricken, "Twelve?"

Sam's face morphs into a total bitchface. "Wha—? Oh, come on! How can you not remember? It was _you_ who taught me how to kiss in the first place, you jerk!" Sam's mostly pissed because, to him, that had been a fond bonding memory — admittedly, at first, a very confusing memory of brotherly bonding, but a fond one nonetheless. After all, Dean had really helped him out then.

As for Dean, he's starting to think denial must really be his secret best friend, because he doesn't remember any of that shit. "No, friggin way," he throws back, because, yeah, just thinking of kissing Sam when he was only twelve-years-old makes him want to die a horrible death. In fact, he's seconds away from reaching for the knife in his boot to commit a little bloody suicide. _Frigging twelve! What the hell?_

Sam continues looking pissed as he says one name that brings back all kinds of horrific teenage memories for him. "Audrey Clemens."

_Huh_ is the face Dean makes, because no bells are ringing in his brain. There's only that slight buzzing sound from the alcohol that won't go the fuck away.

Sam sucks his teeth and then promptly launches into an aggravated explanation that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. (After all, other than being a complete bitch, Audrey had tasted like road-kill.) "The girl who physically assaulted me in the hallway of my junior high for a bet and then told all her friends that kissing me was like someone stuck a vacuum to her lips and then shoved it in her mouth? Remember? I came home crying, 'cause you heard all those girls calling me Cry-Baby Hoover while they made sucking noises behind our backs when you came to pick me up?"

After a moment, Dean finally says, "Oh." Yeah, he remembers that part alright. He'd never wanted to punt little girls like a football before, but he'd come close then. Real close.

"Yeah," Sam goes on at Dean's curled lip. "And do you remember what happened afterward?"

Eyes going even more out of focus with recalling said event, Dean looks away. He remembers now. It thankfully helps to lessen that sick pedo feeling he had going on there for a moment. _Jesus Christ, that was a close one,_ he can't help but think, because his sixteen-year-old self had kissed a young Sam then, but it'd been strictly instructional — no two ways about it!

"That's right," Sam goes on, seeing the recollection in his brother's glazed eyes. "In the name of revenge and so I didn't soil your own stupid reputation, you taught me the right way to kiss. And the next day at school, I did exactly what you told me to. In front of everybody, I walked right up to that girl and I kissed her."—A slow grin— "Turned her legs to jelly and even got sent to the principal's office for it. Remember? You had to come pick me up 'cause I got suspended,"—A quiet laugh—"You were so proud you kept it from Dad."

Dean's lips form a wistful smile. "You're first infraction."

"See?" Sam good-naturedly nudges Dean's shoulder with his own. "You kissed me back then and we were still good."

"Dude," Dean scowls, his happy moment suddenly shattered, "this is different and you know it!"

"Alright, Dean," Sam sighs, defeated. "I really didn't want to bring this up, but I guess I have to now."

"Already don't like the sound of this," Dean mutters, wondering how the hell Sam can just take this all in stride. It's almost like he just doesn't care that his mouth obviously keeps getting molested by his fucked up big brother. Right there and then, Dean thinks Sam's two slices short of a cherry pie — only explanation.

"My sixteenth birthday," Sam states, completely oblivious to Dean's thoughts.

Dean nods. This he remembers well. Well, most of it. "Ah. Good times," he says with a ghost of a smug grin. He'd bought Sam his very first case of beer and, admittedly, his own first bottle of Avalanche as well. (Stuff was good if not a little sweet.)

"Yeah, maybe for you," Sam gripes. "After you made me down way too much Budweiser, you spent all night twisting my wasted ass into a pretzel. Spent most the night eating carpet, before spending the rest of it in the bathroom."

"You tapped out so many times," Dean warmly replies.

Sam snorts. "Yeah and before you finally let me up for the night, you gave me a big ol' smack on the lips, before you jumped up and said '_going to bed, bitch_!'"

"Uh-Uh," Dean gives a slow shake of his head. His words hold a double meaning, because, "Doesn't sound like me."

"Oh, yeah, you jerk. That's exactly what you sounded like and that's exactly what you did."

"Whatever," Dean grumbles. He doesn't remember squat about that part. So, to him, it never happened. And even if it did, he'd probably only done it because… Yeah. That has to be the reason. "Doesn't count," he argues. "S'not a kiss. Probably was only a ploy to mess with your shit. You know, fuck with your head."

"You still kissed me," Sam deadpans.

"Fuck no!"

"Dea—" Sam argues, before cutting himself off. Shaking his head, he says, "You know what? Fine. Have it your way, but you can't just brush off this next one."

"There's _more_?" Dean can't believe his ears. He's seriously thinking about never picking up the bottle again, because _what the hell?_

Eyeing his brother, Sam looks smug. "Remember when you got stabbed in the side by one of Lilith's little henchmen back in Bensford, Nebraska? You know, back during your deal?"

Touching his side, feeling a phantom wound, Dean mumbles out a, "Don't remind me." That frigging blade had scraped pelvic bone.

"Yeah, well, that night, after I stitched your sorry ass up, I promised you again that I'd find some way to save you. And because you downed all those pain meds behind my back, you know, after all that whiskey you drank, you made me seal the deal crossroads style."

"Oh, hell no," Dean says with a lead weight in his gut.

"Oh, yeah, you did," Sam insists. "If I'd been a demon, Dean, you're soul would've so been mine."

"Not funny and shit still doesn't count," Dean shoots back. "Was totally out of my head then. I mean, come on! Pain meds and whiskey, Sam! You just said how that shit don't exactly mix!"

Sam sighs for two reasons. One because he knows Dean won't remember those particular words the next time the guy gets himself hurt. The other because, "Dean, that's three times you kissed me before tonight. And, like I already said, we were doing just fine up until now."

"I don't get you," Dean says, looking Sam over with a critical eye. "How can you be so friggin calm about this? Why aren't you pissed? Angry? Why don't you wanna take a friggin swing at me? 'Cause I gotta tell ya, Sam, if the shoe was on the other foot? I'd be wailing away on your sorry ass right about now."

Sam can't help his smirk. He really can't. "Maybe 'cause I've had lots of practice?"

"Shit's not funny, dammit!"

Sam loses the grin, but still begs to differ. "Yeah, man, it sort of is. Besides, I mean, you kissed me. So what? It's not the end of the world. Like I said, been there, done that and even bought the t-shirt."

Dean can't believe his ears. "Seriously, Sam, your weird ass calm over this whole fucked up situation is pretty much freaking me the hell out here. I mean, you just got done telling me that I had my friggin tongue shoved down your throat a few years ago and it's looking to me like you don't even care. News flash, Sam! When brothers kiss it's not just gay, it's called friggin incest! And last time I checked that shit ain't exactly kosher!"

It pisses Dean right-the-fuck off that Sam's stupid calm is _still_on his stupid face. He has half a mind to shake the huge bastard to make it crumble. "You know, that hurts," Sam airily mocks. "I mean, especially coming from the guy who's always been coming on to m—"

"Don't say it!" Dean barks, because he won't hear it. …He can't. Shit. Ok, yeah, maybe he and denial really do have a thing going.

"Look, Dean," Sam soothes with his face morphing into complete seriousness. "I didn't want to say anything about it before, because I wasn't sure you— But now… Bottom line is I know you might not want to hear it, but I think it's finally time we faced the facts."

"Wha—? What'd you mean?" Dean's suddenly feeling the urge to bolt creeping up his spine. He manages to squash it. For now. He'll go traipsing through the cornfield later if it comes down to it. Maybe he can build a nest in there and spend the night — or, hell, the rest of his life.

Since having woken up in Bobby's house, after having taken his dive and even more so since having forcefully put back all the pieces of his soul, Sam's felt closer to Dean than ever and he's had time to think about why. Looking up toward the uncovered moon, he gathers the courage to explain what he's already figured out for himself.

Speaking of his tragic end with Jess and Dean's own ill-fated relationship with Lisa, he begins, "Dean, I think we both know now that, with the way things are, we're never gonna have that white, picket-fenced dream. And I don't know about you, but I'm ok with that. I am. I mean, I wasn't at first, but I am now because… Well, because I started thinking about the reasons why we've never just let each other go even when we both knew we should've. The reasons why we need each other to stay human, you know? And I thought it was because we're brothers, 'cause we're family, but I wasn't— …Recently, I haven't been so sure."

Even as Dean thinks of what Lisa had told him, how she'd said that he and Sam were so wrapped up in each other that it was twisted, he stays quiet. For once, he just simply sits there as Sam continues on.

"To be honest, I hadn't made up my mind about it until tonight. On my way out here is when I realized. I mean, think about it. Ok, yeah, that first time you were just teaching me and, yeah, ok, that second time could be, like you said, probably just you messing with my head. Even the third one I could say you were just blitzed out of your mind, but tonight?" —A meaningful look back toward his brother— "Dean, tonight you weren't even drunk."

"Sam," Dean fearfully asks past the lump in his throat, "What're you saying?"

"I'm _saying,"_Sam wearily replies, before pausing once again to muster up some much needed courage, _"..._ that although I might've gotten my soul back, I think I was always a little broken. I think we've _both_ been broken in some way and that I'm … I'm ok with that."

"You're saying we…?"

"Yeah."

"No," Dean immediately responds, shaking his head, still trying to wrap his brain around everything the guy just said with his best friend denial still whispering in his ear. "No. That can't—We don't—You can't honestly be sitting there trying to tell me that you—? …No. No way, Sam. Just—No."

Sam sees the conflict in his brother's eyes and he tries to soothe it in the best way he knows how — by telling the truth. "It is what it is, Dean. And, like I said, I'm ok with it. Really, it doesn't bother me at all because… Well, because it's you."

"That's not an answer," Dean immediately throws back, shaking his head, because everything inside him is still trying to fight what Sam and that stupid twinge in his heart is trying to tell him — what it's always been trying to tell him.

"Yeah, it is," Sam quietly responds with a simple yet sad smile. It is sad, because he knows he's going to have to take drastic measures to make Dean stop fucking _lying_ to himself. And, right now, he desperately wants Dean to just drop the façade, because he's tired of lying to himself too. The next thing Dean knows, his back is hitting hard metal with Sam slotting himself between his legs and hovering above him — effectively pinning him in place.

"What the—? Sam! Get the—!"

"Unlike you, Dean," Sam speaks over him, locking his legs against the outside of Dean's struggling thighs and holding his brother's wrists to the hood with a death grip. Making sure to stay out of head-butt range, he speaks slow and steady. "I'm giving you fair warning here. See, in a minute, I'm gonna let you go and then I'm gonna try to kiss you and if you let me and you still don't feel anything, I'll back off and take the ass-kicking that you obviously want to give me. And, afterward, we can just make like this never happened, just keep going on with our lives the way we have been. But ... if let me and you feel something and end up kissing me back, all I'm asking you to do is to try and push everything else aside for once and just do what your heart wants. Not what that voice in your head says. Seriously, listen, I'll even promise you right now that, in the end, whatever you decide, I won't be angry and I won't even try to stop you."

"Sam…" Dean calls, the fight still there, but the deep glare half gone from his face. After all, even after pinning him down like this, that's just like Sam to give him the choice, to let him decide for himself.

Imploringly, Sam looks down at his brother with creased brows and so much emotion flickering across his eyes. "Dean, all I'm really asking is for you to be honest with yourself here. I just… I just want you to be honest with me."

Silence reigns supreme as Sam lets his words sink in for a moment or two. He also takes that time to gather the strength needed to face Dean's bloody wrath or face something completely different yet equally terrifying at the same time. Already staring at his brother's mouth, Sam desperately hopes it's the latter, because, as the seconds tick by, he's steadily becoming lost in the sudden urge to just take what he wants. However, Sam holds back because this isn't about his own newly discovered desires. This is about Dean's. This is _for_Dean.

"…So, gonna let me go?" Dean angrily rolls off, lifting a brow at Sam's unfocused eyes staring at his mouth.

Having spaced out, Sam comes back to himself with a start. He does so immediately releasing Dean's wrists with a, "Yeah, sorry."

Next thing Sam knows he's being roughly manhandled, leaving him feeling like he should have known better than to hope that Dean would just lay there and let him lay one on him. But, suddenly staring up Dean gazing back down at him, Sam doesn't feel or sense any sudden blows coming his way. Matter of fact, their roles have been reversed and Dean's just … hovering. He's not even wearing his glare or his usual smug face. In fact, Dean's expression would be completely blank if not for his eyes. Even Sam can see the bloody war going on behind them.

Lying there, underneath Dean, Sam can also feel the tension in his brother's grip wavering between letting him go and holding on for dear life. It's fucking maddening to Sam, because all he can do is … wait. So, he waits and waits and waits for what feels like forever with his eyes riveted to Dean's that are both seeing and looking right through him. After another moment of heat-pounding nothing, Sam's impatient mouth moves for him. "Dean?"

Unfortunately, Dean reacts to the anxious call as if it's a slap to the face. With an abrupt shake of his head, he snaps back to himself and, in the next second, he's scooting backward, sliding off both his pinned brother and the hood of the car. Watching him go with a heavy heart Sam knows which side came out the victor.

Immediately turning away and running a hand over his tense features and back through his hair, Dean growls low, "Get your ass in the car." And keeping true to his word about not being angry or trying to stop him, Sam gets up and does just that. Even so, there's a pallet of brinks in his gut and so much disappointment in his chest that he can't even begin to measure it.

[xx]

The drive back to the motel is longer than it seems as the tension sits, thick and heavy, between them. Pressed up against the passenger-side door, feeling the wind rushing through his hair from the rolled down window, Sam knows that someday they'll get past this, that someday _he'll_get past this. But, unfortunately, that time won't be tonight. It can't be. Not after his eyes have so recently been opened.

[xx]

The second Dean opens the door, even before he's able to flick on the light, Sam heads straight past him, toward the open bathroom door, on the other side of the room. Sam does so, because, having walked miles that night to find his brother, he's sort of in need of another shower. Well, that and he really needs to put some space between them right now, even if only for the amount of time it'll take to scrub his body and try to wash the memory of Dean, underneath him, from his sinfully tainted mind.

At least, those were Sam's plans, but they're quickly derailed by a hand to his arm holding him firmly from behind. Caught in place, Sam slowly looks back to his shadow-covered brother with a rapidly beating heart, but — still gripping his wrist — Dean's avidly looking away, gazing off toward the far wall. But even through the darkness, Sam can tell that his brother's features aren't shy in the slightest. Matter of fact, Dean looks pissed — seriously pissed. In fact he is. Truthfully, Dean's angry with the entire situation, but most of all himself.

Unfortunately, no matter how hard he's been trying to block out that rush of unwanted feelings that Sam had fucking woken up inside him, his body wants to make him out to be a complete lying bastard. After all, he hadn't told his hand to reach out like that. It just … did. _Fucking let him go. Just let him go, goddammit!_But no matter what he does, how hard he tries, Dean can't release Sam and neither can he quiet the building desire to pull the big idiot to him either. So, stuck in a standstill, Dean struggles and Sam stays hopeful yet highly confused.

No one moves; matter of fact, Sam even forgets how to breathe. The air in his lungs is suddenly just not there, because Dean's actions are reaffirming all the things that Sam's already come to know and that right there makes him want to shove the guy up against the nearby dresser, makes him want to force his twisted affection onto Dean all dirty-filthy-wrong.

Just when Sam's about to pull himself away, to keep himself from doing what his sudden black desire wants, he feels a hard tug that all but whips him around. He's abruptly pulled face-to-face with a furiously glaring Dean; in the silence, Sam can even hear the guy breathing through his nose, can hear enamel grinding in his mouth. Sam doesn't know what to think as waves and waves of murderous energy pours off his infuriated brother; he's fearfully left thinking there can only be one outcome to this dangerous situation: a kick to the balls, a punch to the gut, or quite possibly a gunshot to the face.

What he doesn't expect is the viciously growled, "Goddamn you," he hears, before Dean's reaching up and yanking him down.

And just like that, Dean's mouth is on him, all over him, suddenly kissing him like he's trying to pour out all the blackness from his soul, like he's trying to cleanse himself by letting it all out in one solid go. It's all teeth and tongues and bites and groans. Its wet and harsh and all kinds of sloppy, laced with anger, frustration, and still, underneath it all, underneath all that pissed-off macho posturing, an undeniable affection that makes Sam completely respond in kind.

Desperately licking deep into each other's mouths, sucking on each other's lips, with hands clawing at each other's back and sliding through each other's hair, the next thing Sam knows, Dean's forcefully walking him backward and Sam just let's himself be pushed. After all, yeah, he wants this, wants all of Dean, every single flawed, fucked up piece.

The back of Sam's legs hit what feels like the edge of a mattress and he barely lands on his ass, before Dean's avidly straddling his thighs and just pushing him flat. He ends up on his back with Dean stretched out all over him, pressing down on top of him, forcing the breath from his lungs that he eagerly sucks up through their pressed lips and connected mouths. They don't stop. They can't stop. The need is there in their veins, like a poison, like a venom affecting their blood flow that's forcing it all straight from their brains, down to the steady throb between their legs. Their hands are everywhere and nowhere, because they're too caught up in each other's heat and the need to intimately taste each other like this to know just where the hell their hands are or what they're actually doing.

Until...

"Fuck, _Dean_," Sam breathes between them, after he finally lets go of his brother's mouth. He does so, because his lust-filled mind suddenly realizes exactly where his hand is and what his palm is actually squeezing. (How the hell did it get between them and when the hell did it get all the way down there?) And, just like that, Dean looks down at what his brother's touching and gives a sharp hiss even as he continually presses his awakened bulge down deep into Sam's tight grip.

"Sam," Dean calls out in desperate warning, because, even filled with so much fucked up want and getting off on being rubbed like that, he's still… He's still not sure how far he can actually go, because he's _never_entertained the idea of fucking around with another guy and this isn't just any guy. This is Sam. Even if his dick's screaming for it, he's still a little freaked out about actually having full out gay, incestuous sex here. Small steps, people. Small fucking steps!

Sam can tell everything from that dire, anxious tone, can tell from that heated yet highly nervous look in his brother's eyes. He knows what Dean's trying to say and he's ok with that. Really, he is, because this is all new to him too. To be honest, having never dabbled in anal — at least never in that way! — he's not entirely ready to spread himself wide … even if the idea of Dean sinking down inside him is steadily becoming so goddamn appealing. So, Sam says words that he wholeheartedly means.

"Hey. It's ok," Sam soothes, slowly removing his hand from his brother's covered crotch and using it to pull Dean back down to him by a tender grip to the back of his neck. "Whatever you want, man," he breathes against his brother's kiss-swollen lips, "fine by me." With that, their hungry mouths meet again and, between their next soft kisses that slowly ease them back into the frenzied feeling from before, Sam can feel his bunched shirts being rucked up over his stomach and chest. Then there's warmth all over his naked skin as he feels that familiar calloused touch smoothing over every dip and muscle along his stretched out torso like it's the first time Dean's ever had hands on him before.

And Dean hasn't. Not like this. Never like this. There's no soft curves to Sam's taut frame, no pillowed breasts, only flat, rippled planes, but… Christ, it still fills him with filthy heat, because it's _Sam_ and he's steadily touching his brother's body, memorizing the feel, savoring its warmth, like it's the first and last time, like he'll never ever have this chance again.

Suckling a plump lip, Sam's forced to bite into the tender flesh held between his teeth as his brother's fingers rub over and then harshly squeeze a pebbled nipple, because he can feel that shit like a dull throb at the base of his dick. He doesn't even care that that tiny voice in his head whispers that Dean's effectively treating him like a chick, because, no matter what, it's such the great tease.

"Fuck," Dean curses between them, because that sound he just made his brother make? That one in the back of his throat? Jesus Christ, he suddenly wants to hear it again and again and frigging again. So, his brain sends signals to his hands and gets them moving over to Sam's other nipple and he pulls and rolls it between his fingers as well and — _fuck yes_ — there it is again. So fucking hot. It's so fucking hot he wants to do more, wants to touch and feel and rub and squeeze so much more of Sam. God, Dean wants to make and hear the guy come apart at the frigging seams. Christ, he had no idea Sam could be so hot, so fucking sexy, could make him so motherfucking hard. But he is. Son-of-a-bitch, he is, because the back of his zipper's digging into his erection that's standing solely at attention because of Sam.

As for Sam, he's suddenly drawing in a shaky breath, because Dean's hands have slid down, between them, and that's the hard tug and pull of his belt that he feels. That's the sound of its metallic clasp being hurriedly undone. Even as his brain screams _fuck yes_, he still has the presence of mind to worriedly call out on his brother's behalf.

"Dean?" he tries to say, but he's quickly shut up by the hard press of damp lips.

Sam lets his tongue be sucked on as he hears the hasty downward drag of a zipper that's only minutely hampered by the pronounced jut of his cock. Then he feels calloused hands on his naked hips as Dean's chest once again settles heavily on top of his own. Dean's weighing Sam down alright, because he's no longer holding himself up; he's too busy ravaging Sam's mouth and using the harried slide of his splayed fingers to drag his brother's jeans off his hips and down his spread thighs. There's something he suddenly wants to get at and nothing's going to stop him. Not now. Not when he's so hot he feels like goddamn living fire.

With a helpful lift of his rear, Sam aids in the process and Dean's hands, between the bed and his body, are sliding up the back of his legs, up over the curved swell of his rear and then — good god — they're covering, squeezing, clawing into, and fucking spreading his bare ass-cheeks. Sam groans. God, he groans, because a part of Dean's fingers are so close to his exposed, unconsciously flexing hole and, yeah, he's suddenly left thinking that being touched there wouldn't be such the bad thing after all.

As for Dean, he's not thinking of anything, but the filthy heat between them. He's busy rolling the wet softness of his tongue all over Sam's own as he dirtily ruts his still covered, straining cock down against his brother's deliciously naked length. Sam's hard. Oh fuck, yes, he's hard and Dean knows that he's hard for _him_ and that right there is enough to make him continuously grind down against his brother's stiff dick and try to force out moan after fucking moan from the mouth desperately latched onto his own.

Oh, yes, Sam's cock is blood-filled and red-flushed against his belly and the pushed up bottom of his shirt. He wouldn't be surprised if he's already leaking all over his own stomach and clothes as his hands, up under his brother's shirts, massages every muscle in Dean's back that moves with their slotted together bodies' own sexual rhythm. The rough fabric of Dean's jeans puts off a delicious friction alright, but what Sam really wants, what he _needs_is to feel the rawness of Dean's dick pressing down onto his own. He wants to feel it sliding all over him, but not just his cock. He wants to feel it all over his hips, thighs, and belly as well. The filthy image alone lights him up like a gasoline-coated grave during a routine salt and burn.

So, his hands move to his brother's waist in an effort to push Dean's rolling body far enough away where he can get a grip on the front of the guy's belt. Hovering over Sam, hands to mattress now, Dean just lets his brother do as he pleases as he continuously nips at the guy's sweet lips. And when he feels those large hands of Sam's pulling him free, feels them squeeze and stroke his uncovered cock, Dean's forehead quickly presses to the crook of Sam's neck as he just lets the guy tug at his dick all nice, tight, and thigh-twitchingly slow.

Christ, he's the one making shameful noises in the back of his throat now as he all but hides his frigging face. But — Jesus! — pants hanging off his naked ass with their pushed up shirts a wrinkled mess between them, his hips are too caught up in working his hardened, thick dick in and out of Sam's firm fist. ...And then he feels Sam suddenly letting go. He's about to protest, when he feels — so fucking wrong — Sam's dick sliding against his own in that huge, pre-cum drenched palm his own dick had managed to get all nice and wet.

"Dean," is the fucked out call of his name he hears, before Sam turns toward him and forcefully claims his mouth with his own. Dean lets him have it. Once again caught up in feverish kisses, they trade moan for moan as Dean ruts down and Sam ruts up into his own sticky palm with its curled fingers that's trying to hold their aching lengths together. Just like that, they fuck against each other like two wild bitches in heat and they are — completely for each other.

God, Dean wants Sam. He wants him so fucking much he's starting to feel the shameful urge to come already creeping up his spine as he tries to melt their two half-naked bodies into one; he can feel the heady pulse at the base of his cock flaring brighter and brighter with each smooth, sweaty slip and slide. He's holding back. Fuck if he isn't trying, but — son-of-a-bitch — he can't do it.

Not at all, because that's _Sam_ wildly panting underneath him with his pants hanging open and pushed down mid-thigh. Those are his mile-long legs spread fucking wide. And that's the taste of Sam's tongue in his mouth and that's the feel of his brother's hand wrapped around both their flushed and wet dicks. Dean's feeling so out of control of his own body, because of the fucked up yet so right shit happening to him — to them — that he just can't hold back. No. He can't deny this thing between them anymore. Not when he's seconds away from spilling his load all over… Fuck! He's gonna come!

He doesn't call out his brother's name like his mouth wants to. Its gets caught in his throat as he breaks off their kiss and once again shamefully buries his face in the crook of Sam's neck. Face lodged there, breathing in their own musky smell of sex and his brother's sweat-laced skin, Dean bites into the tender flesh of Sam's neck as he spills all over both their stomachs, cocks, and high up on their clothes and that sweet motherfucking hand, between their bodies, that still continues to milk him so goddamn good.

Dean knows he's leaving teeth marks that will be visible for days, but he doesn't care. On the contrary, the idea that he's claiming Sam — as his lover, as his brother, as his own goddamn property — sends hot shivers through him even as his muscles continuously lock up and quiver while more spurts of cum unload, warm and wet, all over their bodies. God, he's _coming. On. Sam._ Fuck, that's… It shouldn't be… He_knows_ it shouldn't, but, right then, to Dean, that's so goddamn sizzling right-wrong that it forces more hot liquid to come shooting out from the deep depths of his aching balls.

The next thing Dean knows, he feels the cum-filthy hand between them completely disappear and then his world's spinning. But, then again, things were already starting to go hazy to Dean willfully trying to suffocate himself in the damp skin of Sam's neck as he came. When things come back into focus, Sam's between his own spread legs. The sweaty, cum-covered guy's on top of him and all fucking over him like a hot blanket made of half-covered firm muscle and soft skin. Jesus, he looks completely fucked out with his sweat-damped hair clinging to his temples, those dark, half-lidded eyes, swollen lips, and all that cum covering his crotch, stomach and shirts.

To Dean, Sam looks all kinds of vulnerable yet highly dangerous and it does things to him that he can't even comprehend.

"Fuck," he hears Sam brokenly curse, before the guy buries his face into the space above his right shoulder. That pleasured-pained keening Sam's making in his ear turns Dean on even more, even though he really has nothing left to give. A hand tangled in too long, completely damp hair, Dean's other one grabs and squeezes at Sam's bare, rolling ass-cheek as he lets his huge baby brother continue to try to get off on rubbing his dick all over his own overly sensitive, spunk-covered cock.

"Dean," Sam torturously calls as his hands fist, pull, and tug on the sides of his brother's pushed up, soiled shirts for leverage the entire time he moves his hips in an endless circular grind, between Dean's raised, half-pants covered legs. He calls out for Dean, because this is single-handedly the most fucked up, longest, hottest sex-but-not-sex he's ever had … but he still needs that extra push. Still needs that extra something to make him dive off that cliff and into that cloud of sexual bliss. "Dean," he desperately pleads again and, finally catching a clue, Dean tries to give him what he needs.

Turning into the side of Sam's buried features, he mouths at the lobe of his brother's ear as he growls as dirty as he feels, "Come for me, dammit." Grinding his spent cock up against his brother's arching dick and pushing Sam's rolling hips further down onto him by the tight squeeze of both his hands to the guy's luscious ass-cheeks, Dean dirtily demands, "You fucking unload that shit all over me right-the-fuck now."

Fuck, Sam's so close, so fucking close as he bruises both their hips by the rough slide of his dick. But, dammit, he needs more. He needs that extra someth...

"Let it out," Dean hoarsely urges with the pad of two digits sliding down his brother's sweat-slicked crack as his other hand roughly spreads his pulled cheek wide, leaving indented nail marks behind. Tenderly pressing down on and circling Sam's tempting hole that he suddenly wants to finger wide, even as Sam furiously grinds against him, Dean rumbles low, "Come on, Sammy, concentrate and just feel it. Just feel it and let it all go."

And when Sam abruptly feels the tip of one of Dean's circling fingers forcefully breaching him, he finally feels himself dangerously teetering on that sweet edge. Even as he's suddenly locked up around Dean, he shakes and grunts and groans and tries to breathe through his mouth to help open his ass, because that determined finger is still steadily trying to push its way deep inside his tight, virginal hole. And it's that new pleasured-pain that finally sets him off. The unrelenting pressure of Dean's probing digit makes Sam's cock jerk between them, makes it spurt out load after saved up load until that finger is finally buried knuckle-deep inside him.

But even then, getting off on feeling up his brother from the inside out, feeling that tight heat that, yeah, he wouldn't mind spreading even wider with his dick, Dean doesn't stop pushing deep into Sam's tender passage as he dirtily matches Sam groan for groan. Truthfully, he's done this to his fair share of women, but, Jesus, never to a guy. Never to Sam and Dean's softened cock even gives more than one twitch as he feels Sam lifting his hips, pushing up into the downward dig of his finger ... and that's when the twisted heat inside Dean makes him savagely try to bury a second finger to go along with the first. God, and that chocked off whimper he hears Sam give is sweeter than motherfucking honey. They're both spent, sweaty, and filthy with cum, but Dean can't stop trying to spread Sam wide.

Still high from his pumped out orgasm that completely overshadows the stretched out burn, Sam's left feeling like his insides have been emptied out even as his tight hole feels so painfully yet wonderfully full. And just like that, he lets Dean continue to get off on fingering him — scissoring and twisting him open — as he turns and licks deep into his brother's mouth like he's thankful for everything Dean's given him, for everything Dean's allowed between them and Dean kisses him back like he's grateful for being awakened to what his own mind has so desperately tried to deny.

And Dean is grateful, because if their foreplay is this scorching fucking hot? Dean's afraid he might have a heart attack from their actual sex. But that's ok, because, seriously — sin or not — what a hell of a way to go!

"Not going to ... up and leave again ... are you?" Sam hisses, overtop Dean's mouth, through the continuous burn of being so enthusiastically opened.

Thinking _fuck it all_, Dean smugly grins against Sam's lips as he purposely pushes his two fingers, down inside his brother, as far as they can go. "Nope. And don't think your sorry ass is nodding off anytime soon either, bitch."

Sam's wincing lips can't help but curl into a smile, because — wrong or not — this just feels so very much … them. "Whatever you say, jerk."

~Fin


End file.
